


Flashing Lights and Liquor (ON HOLD)

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Dean, BAMF Sam, F/M, Gay Sex, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killer Dean, Serial Killer Sam, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winchester brothers are on every TV in almost every state. They're terrifying, so otherworldly inhuman that some people don't fear them, due to disbelief of what they see everytime they tune in on the news. They're mass murderers, psychotic, sadistic, cold-blooded killers and the thing is - they seem like they want to get caught. Wherever they are, they drag bloodied hands across every surface they can find, touch their victims, kiss their victims and don't care to deal with whatever security camera might catch those actions.<br/>Sometimes they tape the events themselves and they talk, highly, of their deeds like it's something to be proud of. </p><p>And then there's the serial killer in Europe. He's calls himself "Castiel" but the news reports don't know about that - he seems more reluctant to get caught. There's only one recording of him, a haunting clip where a man, soaked in blood turns to face the camera with a smile on his face and wide, spine-thrilling grin that would look comical if it weren't that raging, that insane.</p><p>There's the Winchesters and there's "Castiel" and psychopaths have never liked competition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Winchesters

**Author's Note:**

> Just another thing.  
> There is no "Mass Murderers AU" tag on this site, so I went with serial killers, but the brothers are, in fact, mass murderers. They do it big and obvious like they want to get caught - simply just to fuck with people.  
> Cas is the serial killer here. He goes by code names, the only reason people know it's him, is because for serial killers, stealing people's lifes, is like a game of chess. You always have to be one step ahead, of course, but leave traces, clues, loopholes, so that you're opponent thinks he's winning.
> 
> (THIS STORY IS CURRENTLY ON HOLD. I HAVE SORT OF FALLEN OUT OF THE SUPERNATURAL FANDOM BUT I DON'T WANT TO GIVE UP ON IT. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE)

Dean Winchester was a psychopath.

Dean Winchester _knew_ that he was a psycopath and he prided himself on this, because, logically, as most psycopaths refused to even admit that, wouldn't that give him an extra notch on the sanity card? When he was a kid he liked to pretend to be Charles Whitman, a highly respectable man who killed 15 people from a well-chosen spot on the observation deck of the Texas University clock tower. He still remembered the quotes that had been doubled in size in the book he'd read. One of them said:

" _Sometimes, it feels as if I'm going to explode_." That one Dean didn't like very much, because he couldn't understand how that would feel to a person, but the second one: " _I definitely feel as though there is something unusual in my mental state_ ," was his favourite, because it sounded so grown-up and fancy. A year after his mother's death in the house fire, when he'd started talking again, that was the first thing he said to his father. He'd said it to his Sammy a lot as well, in the hopes that they could be partners in crime one day, like Batman and Robin. Dean wasn't sure what they were going to do, but he figured that it would come to him.

Their dad, whose name was John, got angry when Dean said that sentence and told him to stop. But everytime he hit Dean or shook him or pressed a large hand over his nose and mouth so Dean saw little black spots fall and cover his eyes, Dean would only try and say it louder and louder and louder. It was the  first thing he said to his first therapist when he was six. It was the only thing he said to his therapist. It was the last thing he said to his last therapist when he was 14.

Their dad, whose job was to catch guys who did bad things, had a lot of weapons. Before Dean's mom died, he'd never let Dean touch any of them, said that they were dangerous. After Dean's mom died, there would be loaded guns in almost every drawer.

Their dad, whose best friend used to be a man with a beard and a baseball cap, had a lot of pretty glass bottles of water in a cabinet. When he drank the water, his eyes would go fuzzy and weird and he'd cry a lot and sometimes he would hug Dean, sometimes he would hit him. Dean learned to stay out of the way when his drank the water from the glass cabinet.

Their dad, who drank a lot, never hit Sam much. Sammy wasn't John's son, Dean decided, Sammy was his little brother. So the first time John slapped Sammy across the face because he'd dropped a plate on the floor, Dean had taken the gun from the kitchen drawer and fired it.

Dean was turning seventeen the night he took two duffel bags, three guns he didn't know the names of and Sam's hand is his and locked the door on the way out.

As time went by, Dean taught himself and Sam how to drive the black Impala properly, how to aim properly, how to steal, how to pick locks, how to escape, how to fake identities and, eventually, how to kill. He'd felt a rough surge of pride in his diaphragm at the look of unabashed wonder and awe on Sam's face, droplets of blood freckling his face.

 

* * *

 

 

"I still don't get it." Sam says, picking randomly around in his chicken salad. Despite being moose-sized, Dean's baby brother still eats rabbit-food. "How can they not recognize us?" He asks, turning to look at Dean who shrugs indifferently between chews and swallows. He doesn't care, honestly and he doesn't know, he can't understand why Sam does either. As long as they get the money. As long as they get the coverage. As long as they get to relish in the rush of screams and blood and death, he doesn't care.

"People, Sammy, they're freaks." Sam nods in pitiful agreement as Dean finishes off his burger. He sucks the tips of his fingers clean of the grease and dries the rest off in his jeans. Sam plunks the fork down on the plate, seemingly giving up on rodent nourishment. Good boy. "You ready?" Dean asks, slowly bending down to hook a finger in the strap of his duffel. Sam confirms with a nonchalant flick of his hair and mirrors his brother's movement. The bag has been zipped down since they entered the diner and Dean's fingers close around the warm barrel of the machine gun, pulling it up to match Sam. Keeping it below the bar, resting on his knees, he turns around, letting his eyes drag lazily over the tables. Focusing on a blonde teenage girl not far from him, he smiles shortly, sharply to himself.

"Hey, kid," he says, talking low, leaning towards the table. He points at a silver phone underneath the girls's fingertips. "Point that thing here, will ya?" The girl scoffs and rolls her eyes and Dean shrugs. Some people just don't know what's good for them. The machine gun is heavy, but Dean's used to the weight, used to how it feels in his hands and he points it at the kid, smiling apologetically. "Don't make me ask you again, kiddo." The reaction is immediate once Sam flips up the machine gun as well, firing a series of shots into the roof. Everyone jumps in their seats and this, this is Dean's favorite part, when there's a crowd, when terrified human beings give into the instincts and all move like one body. It reminds him of lab rats or something equally caged, something he's superior to.

Sam goes to lock the door and Dean winks at the shaking cell phone camera pointed his way. "This is a robbery. Stay where you are, and we won't hurt you." Sam's voice has always been warm, reassuring, so Dean has left it to his brother to do the talking. And people always believe. Sometimes they do spare a few lives, but not after having their way with them, talking, telling, manipulating so whatever survives, isn't very much. Dean turns to the counter. Most of the cashiers, the waiters and waitresses have disappeared into the kitchen, except for one. The girl who had brought them their food, a pretty, tan brunette stands pressed against the wall, eyes as wide, hands shaking. Dean smiles at her, makes an effort out of smiling politely and hands her the duffel bag.

"You know what to do, don't you, Sugar?" He asks and he thinks he's never seen someone work that fast. She grabs the bag from Dean's hands and opens the cash register, throwing the contents in with rushed, clumsy movements. Dean stays leaned against the counter, eyeing the waitress with a lazy smile on her lips. He's never had a type when it comes to girls. There's something fascinating about that, how every girl, short and tall and slender and thick can be so beautiful, that in most cases, he can literally feel the breath leave his lungs. There's nothing that outstanding or captivating about this one, so Dean suspects it's the fear in her eyes that makes her so beautiful. The duffle is eventually half filled with cash, and Dean thanks her, letting his eyes linger a few more seconds on her before turning away. She looks like she's about to throw up.

"Let's clean up?" Sam says, rolling his shoulders. Dean nods shortly.

They load their guns.

They smile for the camera.

They clean up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feedback will be greatly appreciated since I've no idea what I'm doing.


	2. The Angel of Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam Winchester watches the news. Dean Winchester watches the headlines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a despicable human being. Sorry for the delay. I had a sudden case of Writer's Fingers - that amazing thing that happens when you've had writer's block forever - so this may seem a bit rushed. I'll proof-read it once I've published it :3 Love to you all.

She's pretty and she's sexy and she's slightly tipsy but so is he and she's got no idea who he is. Dean curls his fingers around the warm, soft expanse of her waist, currently covered by a very tight, very glittery red dress.

"Let's take my car." He mumbles against her thick inky black locks, as they both leave the club in a ruffle of drunken bodies and jittery limbs. Going out is always dangerous, so Dean chooses the cheapest, dirtiest bars where everyone is more than half drunk when getting there, close to passing out when leaving. His date is still half sober, but the Impala's stocked up on more than weapons.

She gasps lightly when they reach the curb where his baby's parked, like the sight of the sleek, black coat is a turn-on. Dean has had enough one-night stands to know that in most cases, it is. He doesn't take his hand off of his waist, or his eyes off of her face when unlocking the door. She preens under the attention and looks up at him under long, black eye lashes, with mascara smudges at the rods.

 She doesn't question it, when he gestures her to sit in the driver's seat, or when he rounds the front of the car to enter on the other side. She doesn't question it when he makes no move to start the car. _He_ doesn't question it when she leans towards him the second the door has closed and the dark resolves in a tangle of movement and warmth and weight.

Her mouth is soft, plump little lips moving between his own accompanied by tiny mewling sounds. He scoots back in the seat and spreads his legs just a little, an open invitation the girl takes without question, climbing into his lap. She's playing off the innocent part well enough, always whimpering, always pleading, but her hands are quick and everywhere at once and Dean lets her take the control for a few seconds, keeping his hands on her hips. It's a game they're playing, it's a game Dean is a master of; who cracks first? Who grows tired with kisses and bites and clothed rutting first?

The girl presses her chest against his and tugs at his arms, wordlessly pleading for him to take it further. Normally, Dean would've pulled away and told her to say it, to ask nicely, but right now it's just a matter of getting off so he gives in, running his fingers along the hem of her dress. Slowly, he hikes the fabric over the girl's hips, smiling approvingly when her kisses slow down and she rolls her hips against the scruff of his jeans, sighing. She's warm everywhere, warm and soft and round and Dean loves it, loves it and when he tells her she does too.

 Beautiful, he whispers and she breaks away, looking down to where his hand slides up her thigh. Baby, he calls her and she gasps a little, out of pleasure, out of surprise when his dry, rough finger tip touches her through her panties, already damp where it clings to her skin. 

Relax, he mumbles against her neck and feels the grip in his hair tighten when he runs two fingers on either side of her center, teasing.It won't be very hard to make her come, the alchohol in her blood pitching all the right senses and dulling all the others, so he moves a little further. With his thumb hooked around the fabric of her underwear, he circles his index finger into her center, pressing and kissing her softly when she starts making noise.

The feeling of her muscles flexing around his fingers, the sight of closed eyes and arched eye brows like it's too much has him hard in his jeans, biting down on her shoulder. Her sounds aren't exactly pornographic like some of the girls he's with, which is nice, which is awesome, because it starts another competition: How fast can you make her moan like a two-dollar whore?

She's the kind of girl who likes the teasing, who hasn't been fucked enough to not care about foreplay, but when he adds another finger, curling them towards her front, she arches her back and opens her mouth in a high-pitched whine. Dean smiles when her movements become frantic again, when she starts rolling her hips to create more friction. He's about too reach behind her, to open the glove department, but she shakes her head, black curls falling down in front of her eyes. Eyes that are probably blue in normal light, but the dark and the eerie glow from the club signs makes them pale, trasparent and Dean feels high for a minute. She reaches up and for a minute Dean thinks she about to show more skin, which is great, which is really fucking great, but that wasn't really what he wanted at the moment. She doesn't, she hooks her finger down her bra it seems and fishes out a small square packet. 

If he could think, he'd wonder how the hell it'd managed to stay there for so long, but right now, all he can think is that girls are really, like  _really_ awesome. 

From there on, it escalates from intoxicating and teasing to hot and blinding pretty fucking fast. The girl pushes his hand away from where he'd been rubbing at her outer lips and before he can stop her she's on her knees with her head between his thighs. Dean smiles into the darkness as she zips down his jeans and almost purrs in appreciation. Oh yeah, the underwear. It was much easier without it. Her lips are soft and yielding around his cock but she pulls off after a few strokes of her tongue, before rolling the condom on.

Dean would like to say that  _he_ rocked  _her_ world and  _he_ made  _her_ come, but in reality, it was probably the other way around. As soon as she's heaved herself into his lap and Dean has entered her, everything hot and dark and electric, she takes control. _She_ fucks him, energy bundled up in a curvy, subtle little body and she's restless. She fucks him, switching between rolling her hips and bouncing in his lap, latching her mouth onto his, both of them moaning. She fucks him and he probably couldn't last longer if he tried, the way she clenches and flexes around him. She fucks him and he forgets to notice if she fakes her orgasm or not, when they both, minutes later, come, tailgating each other. She fucks him and rides their orgasms out, mewling softly when he licks into her mouth. Dean falls back in his seat, his hands tingling and draped around her waist. For about half a minute they just sit there, breathing, until she starts wiggling softly in his lap, heaving herself off of him. He groans out of over-sensitivity and she giggles and kisses his cheek before scooting over to the other side and leaving the car. He allows himself a few more minutes of rest before zipping himself up and starting the car.

 

* * *

 

 Sam's got the decency to keep the volume at a minimum while Dean is still sleeping out his buzz. He's sat on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, remote in hand, watching the news. And what news.

They're on TV again and Sam seriously considers waking his brother up, just so he can see their achievements. It turns out that there was a security camera in the diner, which footage they've used, but he still prefers the homemade ones. Security cameras don't tremble, scream or die, so where's the fun? 

The voices of the news reporter, a white man in his late forties, overlap the remaining seconds of the video - they've cut out all the best bits and censored most of it, disappointingly - and continues when it cuts back to the studio. Sam glances to Dean's bed and turns up the volume a bit, to hear what he has to say:

 

"The so called Winchester Brothers were last spotted in a diner by the name of Miller in Santa Barbara, CA. Eight customers, four waiters and five kitchen workers were in the diner when the brothers locked the doors and opened fire. Seventeen bodies were found on the crime scene, approximately three hours after the brothers had vanished. The murder occurred February seventh, around 9 PM. We warn the public that The Winchesters are on the loose, they are armed and dangerous. More on this story, as it develops."

Sam mutes the TV with a smile. He glances at the alarm clock. It's been almost thirty hours since then, they're in Nebraska and it's ten AM. Sam knows they have to leave soon, before the guy who runs the motel realizes that a couple of mass murderers broke into the room. For now, though, he leans back and lets his eyes rest as Dean grumbles some indecipherable into his pillow. Sam smiles.

"Morning!" He says - yells - and turns the volume up again. Dean grumbles again, this time louder and distinctively more pissed off, but he seems to be awake and rolls over to lie on his back. If there is one thing Sam admires about his brother, apart from his obvious skills in handling weapons, it's his skill in handling hang-overs. Sam's horrible at holding his liquor and the nights after are mostly hell but Dean takes it like a champ, if with a heavy headache. Amused, he watches Dean pull himself up in a sitting position, his legs moving slowly to drop to the floor. 

"Good night last night?" He asks as Dean stands up, absolute if a little wobbly on his legs. 

"Very." Dean groans and, despite his pains, grins cockily, waddling over to drop down beside Sam. "Car sex is  _awesome_." Sam makes a gagging noise and swats at Dean's shoulder. _  
_

"Those are horrible images, Dean." His brother just grins again, like he's satisfied with the reaction and gets up. He hums happily at Sam's comment about 'still warm coffee in the pot' and crouches down to dig out whatever edible he can find in the fridge.

"Oh, by the way." Sam says over his shoulder. "You missed our spotlight." Dean looks up from where he's pouring himself a cup. His eye brows arch and Sam flicks his head towards the TV. "We were on." Dean looks annoyed for a second and it seems he's about to ask why he wasn't woken up, so Sam flicks his head again. "You didn't miss much, though. They went and gone all up close on our faces and blocked out most of the sound. Security camera caught it." Dean still looks disappointed but this time it's from the lack of coverage they got. 

He plops down on the couch again and offers Sam some of his bacon. Sam considers saying no but is met with a pointed look from Dean.

Sometimes, Sam forgets that they, supposedly, aren't normal. It seems perfectly ordinary to him, waking up a few meters away from his brother after a hunt - as Dean likes to call it - rolling his eyes when Dean's finger tips and cheeks are still specked with blood. Bickering over the right to the remote and the showers, teasing each other about clothing and hair and, occasionally, how many kills they made that night. Dean has taught Sam practically everything he knows about what they do. Handling weapons like knives, and guns but also about people. People like to be safe, to trust others, even though they know they're fooling themselves.They like to find the most problematic opponents and unravel them until there's  _trust._ Supposedly, it makes them feel like like they've achieved something. So ultimately, Dean has taught Sam how to lie and lull people into a false feeling of safety. Dean has always been able to do it easily with his expressive eyes and flirty comments, so when Sam proved to be less adaptable than Dean, he just taught Sam to use the undeniable power of his, as Dean likes to call it,  _baby-face._ Sam's twenty-six but he can still pull off a pair of averted puppy eyes and nervous laughter.

They sit in silence and watch the news until Dean has finished his breakfast and makes a comment about how they should get going soon. Sam looks at the alarm clock and nods when it switches from 10:59 to 11:00. They leave the TV on but both get up to delete their traces. They haven't done much in the room, just walked and sat and slept, but they wipe down every surface there is anyway. Dean washes the two plates and two cups they've used and puts them in his bag while Sam strips the bed sheets off. They'll destroy it once they've put enough road behind them. Half an hour later, the room is as clean as it was when they got there - which isn't very clean, it's honestly a shitty motel and they look around to ensure they've got everything. Dean tosses Sam a cloth and tells him to turn off the TV. Sam's goes to do so, but stops, eyes widening comically fast at the screen.

Dean has already left the room but comes back when Sam hasn't shown himself for almost a minute. "Sam!" he barks, sticking his inside the room. "Sam, we don't got all d- Sammy?" He stops when he sees the surprised look on his brother's face. "Sam, what's up?" Then Sam's pointing at the TV, something that resembles a smile around his lips. Dean looks. 

_European serial killer has possibly arrived in America. Signature single killings have been spotted on the East Coast. More on this story as it develops._

Dean smiles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like for you guys to know that this is the first sex scene I've written and I can't even look at myself in the mirror right now oh my gosh. It might be a bit dead-pan, but I just fid words like "girth" and "length" and "impailed" too amusing to use. Sorry. Reminder that this isn't beta'd and English isn't my first language, so all mistakes are my own :3 There was so much feedback on the last chapter tho, I love you guys.


	3. Tobacco Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean leave Nebraska. The brothers get a call from their a uncle and a problem rears its head at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah an update

They've been driving for a couple of hours now, nearing the border of South Dakota. Sam is talking about a major bank in Sioux Falls with crappy security despite its excellence, crumpled files and documents on half display in his lap. And Dean is listening, of course, because the information's Sam spitting out, with his brows furrowed and hair obscuring his eyes is critical to their case, and any fuck-ups can lead to fuck-ups of greater proportions so  _of course_ he's listening.

He's just not paying that much attention.

He can't be bothered to care about his own reaction to the news. Sam had looked almost worried at his smile - because happiness is obviously a disastrous premonition in their line of work - but Dean shrugged it off as curiosity. He and Sam certainly aren't looking for companions. They got Bobby who, despite not being on board with the whole killing people thing, has always known better than to cross someone who killed their father before coming of age. And Sam has his own personal geek squad when his own one-man show isn't good enough. Kevin's a multi-lingual honor student whose girlfriend was killed in front of him and Charlie is probably not called Charlie. They don't seem to care about anyone or anything and they haven't come across anything they couldn't crack yet.

So if not a connection, then what? Competition? An extra player added to the game? Dean snorts at the thought. Hardly.

"... think?"

He's yanked out of his monologue when Sam says something that sounds vaguely like something that could have a question mark at the end. A question. What was the question?

"Uh, dozed off. What was that?" 

Sam does that weird pursed thing with his lips before repeating it: "About the bank? What do you think about the bank, should we take it?"

Dean nods, storing whatever thoughts he might have about serial killers to somewhere in the back of his mind.

 

Much, much later, with Sam throwing his head back, laughing at his jokes, blood droplets on their faces and a shitload of cash in the trunk, Dean has all together forgotten about it.

 

* * *

 

 

Their next lead isn't a lead at all. It's from Bobby. 

" _So, what we gonna do about it_?" Bobby says before Dean finishes his hello. They're driving on one of the many narrow roads near Sioux Falls, both a disadvantage and a win in their case. They're somewhat hidden by bendy roads and tall trees but if they were to get cut off they'd be screwed. 

"Hi Bobby," says Dean, a little offended and Sam gestures for him to put it on speaker. He does and throws the cell phone on the bench seat between them.

" _Well_?" Bobby asks again, before Sam has a chance to open his mouth. The brothers look at each other. "Do... About what, Bobby?" Sam asks, looking up through the windshield on the sky, where the moon is nowhere to be seen, leaving the night pitch black, impossible to navigate through. They hear Bobby sigh, probably feeling majorly inconvenienced by the fact that they can't read his thoughts, much less his face through the phone. 

" _Do you two numbnuts ever turn on the news?_ " Bobby asks. " _I suspected you'd call me after they found out your names but nah, you just wen' on and pretended nothing happened. Three weeks, boys!_ "

Dean wonders, idly, while listening with half an ear, what the hell they've done wrong this time.

" _Three weeks since your family name was plastered all over every screen in the western world. That's one step closer to the death row!_ "

Ah, that.

"Yeah, about that." Sam begins, unsure, ever the verbal solution.

Three weeks since they'd been caught, red-handed, in the most literal sense of the word. It had been a minor slip-up on their side, a few rash decisions made too quickly and they'd paid the price, sure. Nothing they couldn't handle, but when they'd ditched the police station and the hand cuffs, they'd somehow left a bit too much information behind. The surname "Winchester" was suddenly loaded in all kinds of ways.

Bobby makes a non-committal, if undeniably rude noise on the other end of the line. He's muttering under his breath now, and Dean chews on the inside of his cheek, thinking. It is a problem. Of course, they rarely use credit cards and any papers they may have had in the past on their true identity have been burned. But the fact that something as simple as their real name is in possession of the people who'd like to see them dead has him coming to a halt, mentally, reviewing the situation. It's not impossible for them to get some people inside the FBI, it's not completely unfathomable to think that the small amount of information on them could be totally destroyed within a month. It's a possibility and he shares this with Bobby. It ends his undecipherable stream of speech, but before he can answer, Sam breaks in.

"I thought we agreed that buying people was a no-go." He says. Dean looks at his brother, at his tousled hair and lines between his eye brows and he cocks his head to one side. _Eleborate._ Sam shrugs and taps his fingers on the dashboard. _  
_

"It could just end real bad, Dean. We got Charlie and Kevin because they want to, you know? What've they got to lose? But if we buy someone in a high place, don't you think they'd, I dunno, tell someone? Blackmail us? You can't make everyone trust you, Dean." He finishes, looking back at Dean with the same serious eye and pursed lips he has when he's reading a case. Dean smiles.

"It's not always about trust either." He says and speeds up when the road straightens a bit. "It's all about who you're trying to buy. Trust, hope, fear, faith, people rely on different things, Sammy. We just gotta find out what when it comes to that."

" _When it comes to that?_ " Bobby barks from the bench seat. " _Right, because you two have all the time in the world to make friends! What makes you think you'll have time to figure out what people want?_ "

"People want to be listened to!" Dean says, feeling like the only one with a red thread in his hand. "Jesus, Bobby, you taught us this yourself! It doesn't really take much to get people to open up, does it?" It's the entire base of their success, how desperate people are to receive understanding. Some people need pity, some people need orders, but it all comes down to the same thing in the end. Once you've gained someone's trust, it's infinitely easy to take advantage of it.

"Look, I think Dean's right. I'm not saying we should rely on too many people since that's _literally_ -" he throws a pointed look at Dean. "-what we're making everyone else do, but just... We can get people, Bobby. We can get people to do  _whatever_ for us, we've done it before. I wouldn't freak out about the coverage too much."

Dean gives Sam an exaggerated smile and a thumbs-up and Sam ignores it, audibly. From the phone, Bobby sighs so heavily it makes the speakers crackle.

" _Yeah, alright. I s'pose there's nothin' to do about it now, anyways. I'll see what I can find to throw the feds off of you. You two be safe_."

He hangs up before the brothers can thank him. The car is dark and quiet once again before Dean turns on the cassette player and David Lee Roth fills out in the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for not giving up on this. I'm in continuation school at the moment and so much has happened over the past year, and I really am sorry for not updating. I just want you to know that I'd had this idea for so long before I started writing and I kind of just jumped into it but I really don't wanna give up on this! Have patience. A lot of it.  
> A lot.


	4. This is not an update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No really, it isn't.

Hello guys!

First, apologies.

I got this idea about two years ago when I was a huge fan of supernatural. I wasn't the biggest fanfiction reader or writer but I liked the creative freedom it gives people and I just coulnd't find a fanfiction with this trope that really caught me. So I just kinda decided to write one myself. I rarely watch Supernatural anymore. I'm not gonna get into why here, because I probably have the same reasons as many others.

But anyway, I jumped into it, completely unprepared, no plot at the ready, no character sheets, no universe restrictions. I just really wanted to get some air for my head.

As you can see, it didn't go the way I want it. Sorry.

 

I'm in continuation school at the moment - kind of like a boarding school, but Danish and much more flower-power - which means I live at the school and rarely have the time to sit down and write. I love creative writing and my teachers encourage it, but I have certain priorities. Next year I'm starting a PreIB-programme at my local high school which means that it's a test year where the school decides whether I'm qualified for an actual IB-progamme - all classes taught in English, which is kind of a big deal when you're 16 and your mother tongue is spoken by approximately six million people world wide.

The point is that I'd hate to half-ass this story and I'd like to change this universe a bit - not majorly, of course. This means that no, I won't be updating any time soon. I'm too stubborn to let it die, but right now, I just don't have the time to pay attention to it.

So I ask you guys - after all you're the ones reading it - what do you think would be best?

Should I let the story be here? That way you can still read the few chapters if you want to, but the more people that start reading it, the more I will disappoint. And disappointing people sucks.

Or should I take it down? That way it can simmer in my documents unbothered while I get settled in my education and I can poke at it once in a while and figure out how to continue. I'll still have this account so I still exist and if you want me to read something you've written I'll be happy to.

 

Or do you think I can do something else? I'd love to hear your suggestions.

 

* * *

 

 

When that is said, reading your comments has been really nice and I love that you love it. It makes me all fuzzy.

 

 

 


	5. UPDATE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOT A CHAPTER

Okay. I'm very sorry, but this is not going to go anywhere.

I'm completely out of the loop and not at all in the Supernatural fandom anymore, and I also have that IB diploma to worry about. My plan is to orphan my work, but - if any of you would be interested to take it upon yourself to finish it, I would be happy to give over the rights to you. Of course, you have every right to finish it on your own, but if you want to make the official work yours, you'd be welcome. I think I'm going to orphan it in the middle of next week. 

Hit me up if any of you are interested.


End file.
